THE CHRIS-CRAFT MOVED SLOWLY, WITH A THROATY WARBLE, TOWARD St. Leigh’s little toy dock, undulating gently with the waves. The moon, now covered by light fog, bathed the snow-covered village in a pale blue light.
Major John Randal hunched forward between the two front seats, sandwiched between Brandy and Royal Marine Pamala Plum-Martin. Captain the Lady Jane Seaborn was straining forward hard against him, with one arm over his shoulder for support. He was clicked on.
The three women—being women and therefore sensitive to change in tone, inflection, vibe, aura, karma and things like that—picked up on it instantly. Their reaction was to focus on everything he said. Without consciously realizing it, they dialed in. He went over the entire impromptu plan again.
They were winging it tonight, which is just about the worst thing you can do on a military endeavor. The quickest way to get killed in combat, Major Randal, knew was to go on an operation and make up the plan as you go along. Then again, very few high-risk missions are things of precision, and besides, once the first shot is fired, the best of plans generally goes right down the tube anyway.
“As soon as we go ashore, come about and be ready for a high speed getaway,” Major Randal repeated to Brandy in an easy conversational tone. “Remember, whatever you do, DON’T tie up at the dock. Maintain your station with the engine idling. And no matter what happens, Brandy, DO NOT GET OUT OF THE BOAT.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Brandy replied, never taking her eyes off the steadily approaching dock. Major Randal had no doubts he could count on her to be ready to go when they came out.
“Now this is the tricky part, Brandy. If there is shooting in the street, look at your watch immediately and start timing. If we are not back on the dock in exactly three minutes after you hear the first shot, you shove off and go home. Is that clear?”
“I understand—three minutes.”
“Can you see your watch?”
“Not, very well, actually,” she admitted.
“Take mine then,” Major Randal unbuckled his Rolex. “You won’t have any trouble telling time on it in the dark.”
Turning to face Royal Marine Plum-Martin and Captain Lady Seaborn, Major Randal continued his instructions. “Last thing, if either of you two ladies has to open fire while I’m inside the Blue Duck, aim low, hold the trigger down, and shoot up the entire magazine of your weapon so I’m certain to hear the gunfire. If I’m not out of the Blue Duck within one minute after you engage your target, both of you return to the boat. Two minutes after that, if I’m not in sight headed for the dock, go home. Is that clear?”
The girls did not like it, but both nodded in agreement.
“Let me hear you say it.”
“Clear!” the women chorused.
“Lock and load, Marines,” Major Randal ordered. He watched as the women inserted the magazines into the Thompson submachine guns and charged them. If they were scared, neither of them showed it. Their hands were steady, their movements precise as they went through the manual of arms.
Because of German blackout restrictions, not a single light was showing in the village. The only sound was the warbling of the speedboat. Brandy put the Chris-Craft alongside the dock. The instant they brushed the pylon, Major Randal stepped ashore with Captain Lady Seaborn and Royal Marine Plum-Martin hard at his heels. He had the silenced High Standard .22 pistol in his hand, down flat against his leg. He held the A-5 Browning in his left hand, concealed inside his unbuttoned overcoat, stock reversed, trigger forward. Both women were right behind him, concealing their Thompson submachine guns under their full-length mink coats.
A German soldier wearing the standard issue coal-scuttle helmet, with the distinctive metal military police gorget dangling from his neck on its chain, stepped out of a small guard shack at the end of the pier and walked over to investigate. He was not on any heightened alert. Pilots frequently arrived by boat to go drinking in the Blue Duck, and more often than not they had women accompanying them. Nothing one of Fat Herman’s “Eagles” could have done would have surprised him.
Major Randal let the German approach to within a few feet and then quickly shot him three times in the face, just below the rim of the steel helmet, with the silenced .22 pistol. The policeman collapsed instantly, a pool of dark blood rapidly growing on the soft white snow. His steel helmet made a hollow metallic ringing sound when it hit the ground.
If there had been any question about the gravity of the night’s enterprise, it was answered right then and there for the two Royal Marines. Looking a man in the eye while he is being shot dead has a way of putting things into tight perspective. They had definitely crossed over from the planning and transportation phases to the execution phase, a mental as well as physical transformation that occurs at some point on every single combat operation for mission participants, no matter how many they have been on before.
Tonight was turning out to be quite different from faking Texas accents or snapping photos of each other in their swimsuits in a sleepy neutral country. The women were definitely focused now. Mentally they were cocked and locked, though it still felt a little surreal for them to come to grips with the fact that they had actually invaded enemy-occupied France by themselves.
The intersection was less than fifty feet from the dock. The trio skirted around the dead sentry, feeling exposed, but there was no one else around and all remained quiet. No one in the village suspected that a German soldier had been shot dead at his post.
The sound of live music could be heard coming from the Blue Duck around the corner every time the door to the bar opened and closed. Nothing else even so much as moved in the village. The night was perfectly still. The German occupation forces had imposed a strict curfew on the civilian population. Anyone out and about at this time of night was a Nazi, a Nazi collaborator, or a Peeping Tom—all certified legitimate targets.
When the trio reached the end of the short dock, they flattened themselves against the side of the building on the right side of the street; then, moving like big cats, they eased their way slowly and carefully up to the intersection. Major Randal was in the lead on point followed by Captain Lady Seaborn carrying her “Rocking J” Thompson submachine gun, muzzle straight up, and Royal Marine Plum-Martin with her weapon at the high port.
When he reached the end of the wall at the intersection, Major Randal made a quick head check around the corner. There was a cluster of Mercedeses, Citroëns, BMWs, Peugeots, Volkswagens, four or five motorcycles, and a small truck parked at haphazard angles outside the Blue Duck. Obviously, the partygoers had little regard for St. Leigh parking ordinances. Two of the cars were pulled up over the curb with their wheels on the sidewalk. No gendarme was going to issue a citation. Not tonight, not ever, to any of the German Eagles, the untouchables.
Two Luftwaffe airmen, probably orderlies, were standing outside the Blue Duck smoking cigarettes.
Major Randal placed the High Standard .22 back in its holster on the front of his belt, reached back, grabbed the lapel of Captain Lady Seaborn’s coat, and pulled her closer to the corner of the wall. He held up two fingers and pointed in the direction of the Blue Duck. “There is your area of responsibility,” he whispered. “Two bad guys are in plain sight. Wait here until I have time to reach the Blue Duck and take care of them before you move up to assume your position.”
Captain Lady Seaborn made full eye contact and gave him an exaggerated slow-motion nod to make it clear she understood. She must have learned something at those intelligence schools she had attended. The woman knew exactly how to conduct herself on a mission. And that made things a lot easier for him.
Next, Major Randal grabbed the lapel of Royal Marine Plum-Martin’s coat and pulled her forward until the three of them were in a tight huddle against the wall. He pointed to where the road ran straight ahead and to the angle it made to the left, running away from the Blue Duck. She had two avenues of approach to cover. The female Marine also locked eyes with him and nodded slowly to indicate that she understood her assignment.
Captain Lady Seaborn produced a black cylindrical object from her coat pocket and handed it to Major Randal. “Never hurts to cheat,” she whispered.
The black object was a No. 69 Bakelite concussion grenade. He stuck it in the left side pocket of his cashmere overcoat with the two spare magazines for his Colt .38 Super.
“Particularly when there ain’t no Plan B.”
He gave the two girls a wink, pulled the High Standard out of his belt holster, held it behind his back, then stepped round the corner and walked straight toward the Blue Duck. His well-worn cowboy boots hardly made any noise at all in the snow.
As he approached, the Luftwaffe airmen looked up warily from their cigarettes. Apparently they did not recognize his uniform for what it was, and not taking any chances, they quickly snapped to attention and saluted. “Heil—”
Without breaking stride, Major Randal quickly shot them both two times in the head with the silenced .22-caliber pistol at point-blank range before they could even drop their salutes. The two Germans crumpled to the pavement without a sound and lay glassy-eyed on the sidewalk next to their still-glowing cigarettes. As he walked past, he pumped one more round into each of the prone Nazis for insurance.
At the door to the Blue Duck, Major Randal paused long enough to slip the High Standard pistol back into its holster, and in one smooth, well-practiced motion, he drew the Colt .38 Super from his chest holster and cocked it. He kept the Browning A-5 in his left hand, tight to his side under the coat, trigger guard forward.
Then with the big Colt automatic held straight down against his leg, he stepped through the door, pushing aside the heavy blackout curtain behind it, and on into the bar. The small room was crowded, and it was almost completely dark inside. Major Randal stepped a half pace to the right and placed his back flat against the wall to allow him time to assess the situation and give his eyes a little time to adjust.
A combat flying squadron normally consists of twelve to fifteen aircraft. Stukas, having a single pilot, translated into twelve to fifteen flying officers per squadron. Allowing for combat losses, which had been excessive for Stukas in the Battle of Britain, pilots on leave, injured, or sick, or those who had other plans for the evening, Major Randal had not unreasonably expected to find no more than six or seven highly inebriated pilots at play in the Blue Duck.
To tell the truth, he had been counting on fewer than that.
No such luck, not tonight. The place was packed tight. There appeared to be a sea of men and a number of women in the tiny room, though that was only an illusion because the pub was so small.
Unknown to SOE, the Stuka dive-bomber squadron was being pulled out of combat and rotated back to Germany to refit after heavy losses. An FW 190 squadron flying the latest model high-performance fighters had arrived to replace them. As so often happens, the intelligence information was almost, but not quite, accurate. Major Randal had arrived at the Blue Duck smack in the middle of a change-of-command celebration, with the better part of two squadrons of pilots in attendance.
In the far back of the crowded, dark room was a small stage. A blonde torch singer in a black corset, garter belt, fishnet hose, and six-inch heels, holding a black top hat in one hand and a silver-headed cane in the other, was sitting on a tall stool doing her best with a Marlene Dietrich song. A small, round spotlight illuminated the vocalist. She was coming to the end of her rendition. The singer was not giving a particularly convincing performance. Marlene Dietrich was the personification of decadent and world-weary; the blonde looked young and pretty. She could sing.
Regardless of what flag they fly for, combat pilots at play are not known for restraint and decorum. The men were not paying much attention to the performance. The disheveled and partially disrobed women scattered around the room partying with them were even more raucous, intentionally attempting to distract the pilots from the good-looking singer. One, naked except for her black patent leather high heels, was dancing on a table. The shoes, Major Randal noted from the shadows, sported little yellow and black polka-dotted bows.
The Luftwaffe pilots were doing their best to drown with alcohol the high level of stress induced by modern air combat operations flown against a resourceful and determined enemy who did not seem to understand that they were defeated. The Nazi fliers had been drinking since long before sundown. There was not a sober person in the room. These Eagles were totally smashed, just as their counterparts across the Channel in the Blind Eye were right this minute.
One group of pilots in the bar was exhilarated and more than a little relieved at surviving a highly dangerous combat tour. The other was anxious and excited at taking up frontline duty right on the very tip of the Luftwaffe’s aerial spear. As the song came to an end, the revelers cheered drunkenly.
Major Randal took it all in. The setup was exactly the way it had been laid out for him by Captain Lady Seaborn, except for the large number of pilots present. As he sized up the room, it was difficult not to reflect on something Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone liked to say from time to time when things were at their absolute worst: “It’s always darkest before pitch black.” Looking at all the Nazis packed in the room Major Randal concluded this must be what pitch black looked like.
The bartender asked him a question, which was most likely, “What would you like to drink?” Not speaking a single word of French, Major Randal said, “I’ll have a Black Strap.”